The woman was sitting there with her younger daughter and I motioned to take her picture, and she agreed. I got a beautiful portrait shot and then I turned around and took several landscape shots, capturing this chaotic scene of traders, smugglers, refugees and tribesmen swarming around the hills at Daur Baba.
Jan led me to the donkey and I was taken to a platform and climbed on to the animal. One of my trouser legs rode up and I revealed an ankle, which was thankfully covered by my dad’s socks. I was busy rearranging my clothes and burka when the damned donkey shot forward as if to bolt.
The English Northern expression ‘Flaming Nora!’ spilled involuntarily from my mouth as I bellowed my first public words in two days. It was not Pushtu and several people looked in my direction although clearly did not understand that I had just cursed in English. What had attracted their attention was a noisy woman in a burka. Afghan women are not meant to be noisy. They are meant to be servile and quiet.
Most people had returned to what had been occupying their minds before I had cried out, and, as I tried to regain some composure, I leaned forward to grab the rein. The movement caused my camera to move into full view and a Taliban soldier shouted out at me and gestured for me to get off the donkey.
I will never forget the look on the face of the soldier. Not because he was about to arrest me and probably kill me but because he had the most amazing emerald-green eyes I have ever seen. Bizarre as it may seem, I was totally captivated by his breathtaking features, albeit momentarily.
He wrenched me off the donkey and motioned for me to remove the camera. I quickly obeyed and he grabbed it from me, then shouted something at the donkey’s owner, who pointed in the direction of Jan’s uncle. He marched over to him and asked him some questions and hit him heavily across the face with the back of his hand, causing his nose to bleed.
Jan went to his uncle’s defence and tried to reason with the Talib, who was shouting and screaming. Within seconds a crowd of up to two hundred men had gathered around and in their eagerness to find out what was going on I was pushed further and further back. I deliberated for a few minutes and thought to myself: I can turn around and walk towards the border because they are more interested in the guides. I will be able to tag along with others, and because I’m wearing the burka, I’m still invisible.
It was a hard call to make and in the end I couldn’t leave the two guides behind. I watched as the wife calmly disappeared with the younger daughter and I forced my way back into the crowd and asked the soldier for my camera back.
The soldier with the green eyes looked incredulous. He had obviously forgotten about me and here I was speaking to him in a strange tongue. By this time more Taliban men were at the scene and they gasped, as they could see that I was a Western woman. The crowd began to jostle me and a flame-haired Talib grabbed me and the camera and took me to a car.
7
CAPTIVITY
As the car drove away from the Pakistan border I became numb with fear and my whole body seemed to switch off. Maybe it was a defence mechanism, but I remained totally calm on the outside. Inside, the adrenaline was shooting round my system and I could hear my heart thumping as I tried to work out the best course of action.
My train of thought was shattered by semiautomatic gunfire, which ripped through the air. Our car had become part of a convoy and was being led by a lorry load of young soldiers screaming triumphantly, ‘Amreeka spy, Amreeka spy!’ Oh, great, I thought, they think I’m a bloody American. Well I needed that like I needed a hole in the head.
Just then I felt a very sharp nip on my arm. It was the Afghan guide. He was waving and crossing his hands and putting his hand to his mouth. I got the message instantly and if he had taken any notice of me from the beginning he would have known what the plan was in the event of our arrest: ‘We are all on a need-to-know basis and I don’t need to know your names,’ I had told them through Pasha. ‘The less I know about you the better, in the unlikely event we are caught.’
There was more gunfire and the excited rabble then began chanting that phrase so favoured by young Muslims during Peshawar demonstrations: ‘Osama zindabad, Osama zindabad!’ they crowed, which means long life to Mr bin Laden. What about long life to Yvonne Ridley? No bloody chance.
The car stopped and Jan was removed. I didn’t think I would ever see him again. Another man got in the car and sat next to me. I don’t think he was a Taliban soldier and he wasn’t wearing one of those heavy turbans – which, by the way, I think we might see reflected on the fashion catwalks of Europe for 2002.
So, fashion tip aside, I had the Afghan guide on one side and this oily creature on the other. The Afghan continued to nip me hard and twist my skin. I had already got the message and if he continued I swore I’d throttle him if it was the last thing I did.
The car stopped again and Jan was returned to the vehicle. He looked OK. It was a pleasant surprise that he was back in our company. Sadly, his return meant that I was squeezed next to this other man, who had begun to touch me. At first I thought it was an accident, but then I realised he was trying to grope me. I hoped he would stop although at that moment I thought it was the least of my problems.
The Afghan squeezed and nipped my skin hard, and then I snapped. I had to get a message through that I would keep my mouth shut. So I bellowed, ‘Does anyone in this car understand English?’ Of course there was silence, so I continued: ‘I don’t know what the hell is going on. I don’t know who these two men are but I am a British subject and if I don’t get my camera back there will be serious trouble.’
At least Jan would be able to tell the Afghan so he would stop hurting me. The creep on my right pulled at my burka and off it came, revealing black-blonde, matted, strawlike hair. I had no make-up on. My complexion is normally a milky white with splodges of freckles and I have blue eyes.
The creep gave me a comb and I tried to comb my hair, which had been flattened and ruined from two days underneath that burka. At least it was off now, which was a relief. Even Pollyanna would have approved of that positive note in these critical circumstances.
I was wearing some pale-orange trousers and a matching orange, floral dress with three big flowers stuck on the front. The waistline dipped in modestly, then the skirt sprang out like a lampshade. It was a horrendous outfit and I looked like Bette Davis in Whatever Happened to Baby Jane?.
The front-seat passenger with the flame hair kept looking round at me and at first he seemed to be eyeing me up and down. Christ, I am probably going to be raped or gang-raped, I thought.
Suddenly the driver was ordered to stop and I was removed from the car by the Talib, who placed me on some high ground. He then disappeared and within minutes another crowd had gathered around and all I could see was a mass of angry and curious faces.
They were shouting and screaming and jabbering in an excited fashion. Looking back I suppose I was a bit of light entertainment that had been brought into their mundane existence. At that time, though, I had gone cold with fear. And my mouth had gone as dry as a carpet.
I looked down and I saw blood-red nail polish staring up at me. My shoes had gone and so had my socks, although I don’t remember when or how. I hoped no one would notice my infidel-coloured toes because I knew varnish was on the banned list.
I looked back at the crowd and said to myself: This is it. It’s the end. I am going to be stoned to death. Please, God, let the first stone knock me unconscious and make me strong enough so I don’t plead for my life.
I wondered how much pain I could take and prayed that whatever happened I would die quickly. I then pondered what would happen to my body, and whether it would be sent home. I wondered whether my parents would have to identify it or whether Daisy would ever be told how I died. Would anyone be told? I asked myself.
The crowd moved in closer and I wanted to close my eyes but I felt maybe I could stare them out or perhaps someone might connect with me and pity me and try to stop the stoning. I looked at the ground and there
was enough ammunition to keep the intifada (the Palestinian uprising against Israel in the West Bank and Gaza Strip) going for another decade.
Just then I caught the Taliban soldier in the corner of my eye flagging down a passing car. A woman in a burka was asked to get out and he pointed in my direction. The two began walking towards me but by this time the crowd were chanting. I thought chanting was banned.
The woman spun me around and started to search me in a very rough manner. I’ve never been so relieved in my life. What joy! I said to myself. They think I’ve got a weapon or something secret on me. And then my relief turned to anger.
I swung around at the crowd and went to lift up my dress in defiance as if to say: Go on, then, take a look. Not even a stick of dynamite. It was a gesture that provoked outrage, shock and anger and earned me a well-deserved slap across my face.
The vulgar act caused the crowd of men to gasp and then turn in the other direction and run. It was a bizarre sight and made me remember the Carry On Up the Khyber film, in which kilted soldiers lift their skirts up to frighten off the natives. It was highly inappropriate behaviour and consequently the woman in the burka lifted her arms and hit me. I don’t know who was more in shock, she or I – or even the flame-haired soldier.
Our convoy continued on the hellish journey back to Jalalabad and the creep continued to grope me. My patience finally snapped and I shouted, ‘Stop it!’ I then dug him sharply in the ribs and he yelped. The front-seat passenger witnessed half of what had happened and ordered the driver to stop the car.
A heated exchange followed between the passenger and the creep and within thirty seconds he had been ejected from the car. Our journey continued along with the gunfire and the chanting, which was very unnerving.
As we reached Jalalabad, I was paraded around every street-corner checkpoint and shown off like some kind of trophy. I wound my window down and asked if anyone spoke English and the response was no. A little boy, probably Daisy’s age, grimaced and stared at me through the window.
He had a mop of curly, wild hair and brown eyes with a pale, olive skin. He looked really cute and I smiled at him. He cocked his head sideways and, lifting a dirty little finger, he drew it across his neck. Charming! I’ve never really liked little boys and this one was a complete stinker.
As we pulled away for the next checkpoint the driver gave a throaty cough and spat out the heavily chewed lump of ghat he’d had in his mouth. Wrapped in his phlegm, the whole pile landed on my face and, as it slid down, I retched before using the burka to wipe myself.
We stopped at another checkpoint and a man gave me some paper and a pen and I quickly scribbled Jim Murray’s work telephone number on it and begged the man to ring. He couldn’t speak a word of English and I think what he was after was my signature. It was probably going to be the last time I put pen to paper, I thought to myself.
The shock was starting to wear off and the full horror of what lay in store started to dawn on me. I think my eyes became quite moist and this man put his arm through the car door and gripped my wrist in a firm but harmless way. He kept saying ‘OK’ and I think he was trying to reassure me. I smiled at him and he smiled back.
Looking back, I realise that it must have been quite a memorable moment for the men of Jalalabad, who saw only the faces of their mothers, wives or sisters. There, sitting in the back of this car, was a blonde-haired, blue-eyed woman from the West who was not wearing a burka. If I had still been undercover, no one would have bothered me.
The car pulled off and we eventually headed through the gates of the Taliban intelligence headquarters. The three of us and the little girl were taken into a plain, but clean, air conditioned room with bathroom facilities and left on our own while the door was locked. I motioned to Jan to say nothing in case it was bugged. The Afghan had finally got the message: I was not going to say or do anything to betray them.
About half an hour later we were ushered out and into another room with a single, hospital-style bed. I gestured to the jailer that I couldn’t be left in a room with two strange men whom I didn’t know. It was a situation that was not allowed in the Taliban regime and I tried to use it to my advantage. It worked and I was put back in the original room on my own.
My personal jailer, who could not speak a word of English, motioned to me that he was going to lock the door from the outside and that if I wanted anything I would have to knock. Like many Taliban soldiers, he was quite striking to look at and had a magnificent, wild main of thick curly hair under his bronze-coloured turban, which was wrapped around an extravagantly covered tribal cap. The cap told me that he came from the Kondoz region in the northeast, and is supposed to contain more than two thousand different colours.
I sat down on one of the red mattresses and tried to assess my situation and my chances of survival, and I have to say that things did not look that good. I wondered what the time was and thought Jim would be at the newsdesk now waiting for my call.
I felt really sick and scared and wondered whether the world would ever find out that I was being held by the Taliban. I wondered what had happened to my camera and remembered that a commission from Nikon Owner, the magazine of the Nikon Owners’ Club International, had just gone down the tubes.
It is funny how trivia seems to come to the surface in really serious and heavy situations. I was worrying about what was on the film and wondered whether they could identify any of the villagers from Kama. All sorts of crazy thoughts were racing through my mind, and I realised I still had my hands wrapped round the burka.
Just then I heard what was to become a familiar sound: the lock rattling and the key turning. It was the director of intelligence, a cool, elegant man whose face betrayed no emotion of any kind. His eyes were cold and my imagination began to run riot. I wondered whether he carried out his own torture or was one of those who would cast the first stone.
There was something very enigmatic about him. He asked me to write down some personal details and I informed him that I was a British journalist. He remained unimpressed and I got the feeling if I said I was a messenger sent by the Queen of England he would still have hung on to his deadpan expression.
After he left I felt quite pleased with myself because I had managed to hang on to his pen. All I needed was some paper or other writing material and I would be back in business as a journalist.
It was Friday afternoon, 28 September, a day that will live with me for the rest of my life, and I don’t think many of my family, friends or colleagues will forget it, either. I wondered when Jim would sound the alarm and did not envy him the task of breaking the news to my mum and dad. He was after all the bloke, in Mum’s eyes, who had sent her baby daughter off to Islamabad. In many ways I was in the best place and at least my sense of humour was intact.
I looked around the room, which had an air-conditioning unit, to see what I could find. I found a coffee-table book, which had been given to someone as a farewell gift because it had loads of signatures inside from well-wishers. I got the feeling it had belonged – or had even perhaps been presented – to someone in Britain or America who was making a new life out in Afghanistan. It was called Caravans to Tatary and was written by a French couple called Roland and Sabria Michaud.
The book was first published in 1978 and was about the Michauds themselves, who had obviously travelled across Afghanistan taking some stunning pictures and dramatic snapshots of Afghan life. I wondered about the original owner of the book and pondered on why it had been left behind. Whatever the reason, I was glad because it kept me occupied me for a short while.
If I didn’t keep active my mind would start to drift towards Taliban punishments, including stoning and beheading. Anyone who has watched Saira Shah’s shocking television documentary, Beneath the Veil, would know how evil this regime can be.
I think she hid a camera beneath her burka and sneaked into the country to expose the brutality of the Taliban towards women. She secretly filmed some public executions at football pitches. I w
ondered whether she would film mine.
As I sat there twiddling my thumbs I got a whiff of something really smelly – and realised it was me. I hadn’t had a bath for more than two days and I had been wearing a dress and trousers made of nylon, Crimplene and polyester. I was smelly and sweaty, and my hair was plastered to my head.
The jailer, whose name, I was to discover, was Abdullah Mounir, returned with some food and I refused to eat it. I hadn’t eaten for about two days but with all the anger, excitement, tension and fear the last thing on my mind was food. Abdullah spoke no English but using my hands I made it clear I would not eat unless I spoke to my mum on the telephone.
The director, who could understand bits of English, returned and asked why I was not eating. He was joined by three other Taliban people and a young man called Hamid, who was to be the translator. I said, arms folded, ‘I will not eat anything until I can speak to my mother and I certainly cannot eat your food as a prisoner. I will eat with the Taliban only as their guest.’
They looked at me and I thought: Ridley, where the hell did that pompous twaddle come from? They obviously thought the same, because they walked out and left me with no food and no phone. I looked out of the window, which was covered in mosquito netting, and contemplated my future.
I had no more visitors and went to sleep, or tried to. During the early hours of the morning I heard the door open and the hair on the back of my neck began to prickle, but I did not stir. I was curled in a foetal position and by squinting I could see the outline of a man standing at the door.
The door then closed and everything was pitch black. I was about to let out a sigh of relief when I released the man was in my room. I didn’t know whether I should scream, but I don’t think a noise would have come out, anyway, because my mouth was like sandpaper.
In the Hands of the Taliban Page 12